


Am I Supposed to Apologize?

by spellboundnora



Category: Camp Camp (Web Series)
Genre: (mentioned) - Freeform, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Resentment, Songfic, i love headcannoning what max's activity would be if he had actually chosen one, in my cc series it's baking and here... well i don't wanna spoil it, is that ooc? who knows, kinda just want to show my dramatic boys not hating each other, max actually apologizes and means it, max has an outburst, pre-romantic maxpres if you squint i guess?, shit doesn't go well until it does
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-13
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2020-01-12 12:22:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18446459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spellboundnora/pseuds/spellboundnora
Summary: Max always comes to the theater late at night when he can't sleep. It's only because no one else is ever there. He totally isn't hiding anything. But of course, nothing good can last. And the one person whose attention whoring ass he hates the most is at the theater the fifth night he shows up after a nightmare. Can't the little shit be satisfied with having the theater in the daytime?Inspired by the song "Am I Supposed to Apologize?" by Maria Mena, which I highly recommend you listen to while reading.





	Am I Supposed to Apologize?

The two boys startled each other when Max walked backstage at approximately three am. He didn’t expect anyone to be there. No one was ever at the small, hastily constructed outdoor stage this late at night. He made sure of that, scouting it out on multiple occasions before he ever made it his. He had come at least five times after nightmares, not wanting to share them or the panic attacks he would sometimes get after, with his tentmate. He knew Neil would understand, wouldn’t make fun of him, but a deeper part of him refused to show any weakness. And yet, even though the space was his at night, there sat the boy who the stage belonged to in the daylight, holding a book and a pencil, a flashlight hanging from a hook above his head shining a spotlight on him. That insufferable bastard who always had to have attention on him. Preston.

“Max, what are you doing here?”

Preston looked almost afraid of him. Good, be afraid. Of course, Preston couldn’t just have the stage during the day. No, that wasn’t fit him, as devoted to the fucking theater as he was.

“What are you doing here, drama queen?”

“I, uh, I-“

Preston stammered, not having an answer to Max’s bitterly spit out question.

“Are you writing in a fucking diary? Ugh, what kind of pussy keeps a diary? Or wait, I know, it’s a dream journal. Or you’re writing poetry.”

“They’re… they’re song lyrics. I’m writing a song.”

“Working on your next big fucking rock opera, are you? Is it going to go as badly as Romeo and Juliet 2, or whatever that dumb play you made us put on was?”

“No! And my play only went badly because all the actors were imbeciles! I do regular music too, I value all of the performance arts.”

“Fine, whatever. Let me see it then.”

Preston protested as Max walked over to him and grabbed the journal forcefully out of his hands.

“Wait, no, it’s not done yet! It’s not good!”

“What do I care if it’s good or not, I’m just going to use it for blackmail material.”

“Max, please, you can look at any of the other ones in the journal, just not that one.”

“Well, now I really want to see it. Since you don’t want me to.”

Preston sighed sadly, unusually not having any fight in him. Equal parts curious as to what was up with him, and bitter that the theater boy had stolen the stage that Max used at night, he opened the journal, revealing a few lines of lyrics, with parts scribbled out and replacements written next to them. A work in progress, just like Preston had said. But the words themselves contained a beauty that no twelve-year-old should’ve been able to procure.

“I loved her more than myself  
But she made me choose  
Between her and my father  
And so I refused

I fled her house and wrath  
Eleven years of age  
Followed the crooked path  
That led me to a stage

The curtains opened up  
My heart followed the lead  
The music wouldn’t stop  
And I could finally breathe

But I will spend a lifetime  
Trying to understand  
Why someone sharing my bloodline  
Would not lend me their hand

Am I supposed to apologize?  
I’m supposed to apologize.”

No, no, this couldn’t be real. This had to be something Preston made up. For a character he’d made. Max was the only one that fucked up, Parent’s Day had taught him that. Parent’s Day… maybe that could’ve been his inspiration. Had he seen behind the curtain when that part of Max’s past had unraveled? Did he know about how David and Gwen had taken him for pizza, out of pity? Was the young songwriter using a fantasy of him, of a tortured soul, for creative purposes? Because he didn’t think like that. Not at all. He didn’t care about what his parents thought of him. He never loved them, and they never loved him. And he didn’t care about the stage, the music, any of it. He just came here because it was secluded. He felt tears prick at the corners of his eyes as he threw the journal back at Preston, hard, and hit the boy in the chest. He made a small sound of surprise as it smacked into him, making no effort to catch it, instead just studying Max’s expression.

“Is this… what did you fucking see on Parent’s Day? That’s why you didn’t want me to see it! I can’t believe you’re that fucking starved for inspiration that you tried to turn my fucked-up-ness into some shitty little song. Well, you can just tear this bullshit out, cause I don’t know what you saw, but you got it wrong! I don’t give a shit about them!”

He caught a split second of Preston’s confusion before he turned his back on the boy and ran down the steps and into the field behind the stage. He ran and ran, tears flowing down his face. He had to have that dream tonight, the one where everything is okay, everyone is nice, until he fucks it up and destroys it all. He had to come down to the stage, where he could do the one thing that made him feel better, the thing that, in a different world, would’ve been the activity written on that damned piece of paper. The one that Preston must have seen David and Gwen talk to him about. He stopped at a large tree and sat against it, facing away from the stage. Now that Preston had seen him as weak, he would stop fearing him. The balance of things would be upset, he wouldn’t be on top, with his two accomplices, kept at a reasonable distance below him, and the rest of camp in apprehension of what his next move would be. It hit him how fucked up it all sounded when he thought about it that way. Such is being the son of an emotionally abusive business mogul. And then another thought came to him, that maybe he was too self-centered to see. Who had been at Parent’s Day for Preston? His… grandma. His parents hadn’t been there. He hadn’t said a thing about where they were all day, either, from what Max could remember. That whole thing could’ve easily been about him. And yet, Max had made it all about himself. He may not have been on the best of terms with Preston, but he knew he had to clear up the situation. He had learned the importance of apologies from how few he’d gotten, and the bitter boy knew his actions called for one. He may not have been the best at actually giving them, but he knew at least when one should be given, even if he chose not to. But this time, he would. 

He stood up, took a deep breath, and walked back to the stage. The steps creaked as he ascended them, and he could hear movement backstage. He pushed away the back curtain and saw Preston, curled in against the wall, genuine fear on his face. The kind of fear he’d seen in people right before Nurf beat them up. The kind of fear he knew on the inside, even when he put up a tough and manipulative front. He didn't like seeing that fear on Preston's face, and knowing it was he who put it there.

“Preston.”

The theater boy’s eyes stayed locked on him, again studying his guilty expression.

“Shit, I don’t know what to say.” Max laughed nervously. “Well, I guess I’ll start out with saying I’m sorry about that shit I just pulled. I just thought you’d seen what went on at Parent’s Day and made your own fucked up conclusions and that’s why you didn’t really fight on giving it up. But I’m a stupid bitch who can’t see past myself sometimes. I didn’t think that maybe you might be in the same boat as me. I’m sorry I blew up on you in the first place too. It’s been a rough night, I didn’t expect anyone to be here. No one usually is, but that’s not an excuse for acting like a shithead.”

Gradually, Preston’s expression transformed from fear to understanding.

“I forgive you, Max. I honestly never put two and two together about what happened with you on Parent’s Day, but I can see it now. I get why that would be a really jarring thing to see if you’ve been through the same thing. We all have our bad days. But, if I may ask, why were you here in the first place?”

Max hesitated for a second before answering.

“I, well… I have nightmares sometimes, really shitty ones. This place… it’s usually empty at night. I know a few other kids get up and wander around at night and, believe me, I scouted out everywhere to figure out where was the least likely to be found, so I found out no one ever hung out backstage. What about you?”

“Same as you. Usually, I can go back to sleep after I’ve had a bad dream, but I’ve had this one reoccurring one for the past few days that just sucks, so I didn’t really want to sleep anymore. So, no reason for the stage in particular? Just privacy?”

“Maybe I don’t want to spill all my secrets in one night.”

“That’s fair, I suppose. I finished the song, do you, uh, want to hear it?”

“Sure, I mean, if you want.”

“Okay.”

And with that, the lyrics came flowing out of Preston’s mouth, on a melody as smooth as molten silver. He had a really pretty voice, it channeled the sadness and bitterness of the words well. And in Max’s head, he created something to go along with it.

“That was… amazing. Your voice fits really well to your writing.”

“An actual compliment? Who are you and what have you done with Max?”

“Don’t tell anyone I’m not being an asshole, I have a reputation to upkeep.”

“Yeah, yeah. So you actually liked it?”

“I did. What kind of instrumentals are you thinking, or have you not gotten there yet?”

“Probably a piano backing, building to a crescendo with drums at the choruses. But I’m not entirely sure.”

“Hmm, yeah. That would be nice.”

“Look, I like this new side of you and everything, but don’t you hate me? I’m obviously up for the friendship route if that’s what you want, but I just didn’t think you’d stop actively disliking me this soon.”

“I never… I don’t hate you. When I come here at night, I watch videos on David’s phone of professional dancers and try to recreate the moves on stage. I’ve always wanted to do dance, but my parents never let me, and once I got here, I looked around, and I decided I didn’t want to try my chances of becoming Nurf’s favorite victim. I’ve always been jealous of you, because you have your thing, and yeah, maybe the rest of us aren’t crazy about it, but you whole-heartedly love it, and that’s all that matters to you. You have the courage to do things in the daylight.”

Preston’s eyes widened.

“Really? What kind of dance? That’s so cool!”

“Contemporary, mostly, but I’m not any good at it. Not enough for you to actually give me a choreographed part in your next play, if that’s what you were thinking about. I’ve had no formal training. Also, if you breathe a word of this to anyone, you’re dead.”

“I won’t, I promise. But I was thinking, maybe if we do a musical, you could be our choreographer? I saw the way you were thinking while I was singing, you were making a routine for it, weren’t you?”

“Yeah, you got me there. I just don’t fucking know enough, and if you offered it to me publicly, I’d have to make a big deal out of thinking it’s stupid. I do have a reputation.”

“Hell, that works for me.”

“Alright. When do you think the next play will be?”

“Not sure, but I’ll let you know when I do.”

“Preston?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for this. Just, talking to you. It’s nice.”

“I like talking to you too. Once you get rid of the… rough exterior, you’re actually pretty cool.”

“Thanks? I think I’m going to go back to bed now. See you in the morning.”

“Yeah, I’m feeling better too, so I might also try to catch some sleep. Good night, Max.”

“Night, Pres.”

And so the two boys went on their ways, but every so often, one of them would return, late at night, and find the other one backstage.


End file.
